


The Atom Cat’s Newest Kitten

by SunshineRight



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Atom Cats - Freeform, Atom Cats Gang, F/M, Original Female Character - Freeform, Other, Synth character to be exact, The Atom Cats had too little game content, Uhhh Shameless shipping anyone?, i gave them a new member, tadaaaa, they deserve love, well they somewhat did, y’know that line where someone says ‘the railroad should send a synth this way’?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 14:49:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15026984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunshineRight/pseuds/SunshineRight
Summary: “You hear about these Railroad cats?“They take synths stuck in a bad way and give 'em a new life, new digs, new memories, everything.“Why they haven't sent any to us is beyond me, this is the best life you could get!”That wish of the cats is fufilled as they find themselves with a new member who’s not entirely human, but is entirely family.





	The Atom Cat’s Newest Kitten

      Radstorms, gun fire being the only clear white light, the half-shining moon filtered by green, and the screams of war.

       D9-55 had escaped the institute to the outside world, something she wished all of her brethren could do. Some didn't want to, and some who did... hadn't made it. D9-55 had survived. And now, before her, was a world like she'd never seen.  
        D9-55, however, was being escorted out of the Commonwealth in a hurry— something big was brewing between the institute and the brotherhood and the railroad, they had to move quickly in the middle of a radstorm to safely escape. D9 had heard that Synths would have a face change and a memory exchange of sorts before they left. However, the caravan escorts that were leading D9-55 out of the commonwealth also happened to be leading two other synths, too. They said they were on a tight schedule and couldn't take extra steps to help them. They apologized.  
R7-94 and C1-48 were two others that D9-55 hadn't met until they'd left the institute. R7 was a beautiful young woman with light hair and kind eyes while C1 was a bulky man with a permanent scowl on his face, but he was still very kind in actuality. D9, herself, was the quietest of the three, and was surprisingly the most nimble. She'd never really seen her reflection, but her hair was long and dark and she had pale skin and sometimes thought she might have freckles across her nose.  
The railroad escorts, or runners, had promised them safe passage as much as they could. They told them they'd have to venture further beyond the borders of the Commonwealth to ensure they'd make it. Though the green clouds of radiation blocked out the moon and the wasteland was more dangerous than she'd thought possible, D9-55 thought the world was beautiful above ground. She didn't mind having to venture further with her escorts and her newfound friends. She thought it would be better than she'd ever dreamed.  
      The biggest problem, the railroad agents had said, was that they'd be taking a road south through what was left of Quincy. D9-55 didn't know what had happened there, and she figured she shouldn't ask, but, instead, should follow. So, she stayed close, tucked between R7 and C1. She didn't talk to them much, but they spoke passively to eachother and her. The two had plans to stay together and head for the Capital Wasteland, something about knowing a synth from some odd years ago who escaped to a city there.  
      They'd asked D9 where she'd be at some point, she only shrugged.

        It was the middle of the night, Radstorm still raging around them and the moon high in the sky. Silence befell the group as they snuck forward as quietly as possible, tiptoeing around what the guides called 'Quincy.'  
       D9 froze suddenly, hand wrapping around C1's arm in a death grip as her eyes met the worst sight she could imagine.  
        Standing upon bodies, there on the other side of the gate... a courser and several gen2 synths. Specifically, Q5-19. A tall, fair haired man with a permanent deepset scowl on his face. Trained to kill and he almost had— he'd threatened D9 with punishment very often— and, as a result, D9 feared him. So much so, she was frozen in place, gripping C1's arm with enough force to nearly make him yelp in pain.  
       D9-55's breathing shallowed, and C1-48 finally saw what she stared at. He wrapped an arm around her and tried to pull her along, but suddenly her head snapped forward— she knew that when Q5 went on field missions, he always took at least three synths. But she only saw two.  
        She watched in horror as the railroad escorts continued with R7 right behind them. She couldn't do anything as the synth rounded the corner and began to fire, alerting the other two and Q5. Lasers began firing and all D9 could do was run. She got a hundred feet away before turning to see the two railroad agents dead, and a laser blowing off C1's arm, blood pouring as he collapsed. Q5 began walking towards R7, who stared in abject horror as he began reciting her reset code.  
       Q5-19 looked toward D9-55 and stopped in the middle of the code to point to her, yelling for the synths to stop her from escaping. They began firing and a shot clipped D9's ankle, but she couldn't let that stop her.  
       D9 used the green cover of the radstorm to begin running the direction she'd come from before. She didn't stop, she couldn't stop. She thought Father was exaggerating when he said escaping would do no Synth any good. He was not.

     D9-55 needed to find shelter, sure, but it was the dark of night, the middle of a rad storm, and she was hurt. She was an escaped synth and could barely see beyond her nose. Nobody in the wasteland would trust her and she doubted she could trust anyone. She'd heard the railroad agents talking about how the people of the outside feared the institute and it's synths, how they'd lead whole witch hunts if they barely suspected someone to be a synth. If the Institute wasn't her biggest worry, it would've been the rest of the world.  
       D9-55 laid herself against a support beam of a broken highway. Breathing heavily from the combined efforts of running and having to run on a bleeding ankle. The radiation made her sick and her heart was pounding in her ears, but everything began to grow distant. The night grew darker and slowly drew to a silent whisper of winds whipping around her. She slowly slipped into unconsciousness, letting the darkness envelop her like a cool blanket.

        D9-55 woke up on a dirty cot with a rogue spring that dug into her back, her ankle was bandaged and sunlight streamed in the windows. The walls around her were covered in rust and the room smelled faintly of smoke and another scent D9-55 couldn't place.  
She was relieved, at least, that she wasn't in the institute, but a new fear rose to mind at that realization— she wasn't in the institute... so where was she?  
Without moving her head, D9-55's eyes scanned the ceiling above her, then slowly rolled to the very corner of her eye, where she could barely see a man sitting at a terminal typing almost silently. The clicks of the keys were barely audible, but now moreso that she was aware of his presence. He had a rhythmic typing sequence and seemed to try and type to a beat that D9-55 couldn't hear.  
She took a deep breath and slid her left hand off the side of the bed where she hoped the man couldn't see, she felt for something— anything— she could use to defend herself. She found nothing.  
        "Mornin', Jack." The man said suddenly.  
        D9-55 froze in place, hoping he was talking to someone else.  
        "I'm talkin' to you, nosebleed." He seemed to taunt her.  
         D9-55 slowly sat up, making eye contact with the man— a young looking guy with a large pompadour, a leather jacket, and a pair of sunglasses. Square jaw, thin smile, and barely shaven. This guy was particular about his looks and felt he had something to uphold— he was sitting in his personal room... trailer... like that. It was his mentality.  
        "Can you talk, dolly? Got a handle?" He quirked an eyebrow.  
        D9 thought to herself that she needed to act natural— but how did natural sound? He used a lot of slang, should she return it? She thought she'd wing it, "sure do, Daddy-O— call me—" shit, she can't tell him to call her D9-55, can she? Act natural, "a kick."  
       He smiled, "Diggin it, cat. Name's Zeke, coolest cat in town." Zeke leaned back, pushing his hand against his hair, "Picked you up in the storm last night on the cruise home— fixed up your ankle. You feelin okay, doll? what's the word from the bird? How'd you end up there?"  
       D9 shrugged, "I-I got attacked. Yeah. By— by uh— gunners."  
        Zeke peered down over his glasses, "That so?"  
        Did he know she was lying? No, there's no way he was that smart. She was a great liar! ... right?  
        Zeke stood up and sauntered toward the bed in a cocky fashion, "Cat, that wasn't a bullet wound on your leg. Gunners don't fire that kind." He squatted in front of her, pulling his glasses off and looking her in the eyes, "what's your tale, nightingale?"  
         She paused, everything in her brain going into overdrive and she blurted out the last thing she wanted to say, "I'm an escaped synth." D9-55 immediately smacked a hand over her mouth.  
        Zeke chuckled, "That it? Shoulda said that. Railroad finally send a cat our way?"  
         "You know the railroad?" D9 asked hopefully.  
        "Pah, those bigshots? Nah. They wish they rode with the Atom Cats." He brushed it off.  
        "Atom... cats?"  
        "Well yeah— I run this band. We're the coolest cats around." He smirked, pretending to be non-chalant, "Been saying for years the Railroad oughta send a bird this way— they'll get the best life possible!"  
      "Really?" D9-55 knew the railroad hadn't meant to send her here but... maybe it would've been better than going anywhere else.  
        "Well sure! They sent you didn't they? Guess you'll have to be a cat now!" He smiled, "We'll have to get you some new digs and all. But— ya gotta tell me. What's your name? What do we call you?"  
        "Er... well... my designation is D9-55." She stammered out.  
        "D9, huh? D9..." he mulled it over, "How about... Dean? D9? Dean?"  
        D9 blinked, it sounded... good, "Yeah," she smiled, "I like that."  
         Zeke smiled, holding his hand out, "Well, Dean, welcome to the cats."  
         D9 smiled, and Dean shook his hand, "Thanks a bunch, Zeke."


End file.
